Battling Oneself
by Nerds United
Summary: So... what really happened on that deserted island in film number one? This is how I figure it... Rated M completely for safety. It's barely dirty at all. It only references that sort of thing. LAST CHAPTER UP!
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: so... what really happened on the deserted island? here's how i figure it... **

**enjoy! please review!**

"Mr. Sparrow," said Elizabeth indignantly, drawing away, secretly reveling in the success of her plan to get Jack drunk; hopefully drunk enough to pass out. "I'm not entirely sure I've had enough rum to allow that kind of talk."

His gaze turned quite solemn, and Elizabeth's eyes were drawn to the rings on his fingers. Her gaze snapped away as she realized which finger in particular she was lingering on, landing hastily on the nearby bonfire. "I know exactly what you mean love," he said seriously, brushing up the edges of his mustache. At the sound of his voice, Elizabeth's eyes instantly came to rest on his lips. _It's the rum,_ she told herself, tearing her gaze away from him.

Elizabeth sat up a little straighter, raising the rum bottle high so that the amber liquid glistened, glowing in the flickering firelight. _The plan is going perfectly!_ "To freedom," she declared, lifting her chin.

"To _The Black Pearl_," Jack added pensively. The bottles clinked pleasantly and fairly glowed in the firelight and Elizabeth felt almost giddy. Success was so near that she could almost taste it—or that could be the rum. _Any minute,_ she thought, _any minute now he'll start to drink, and then pass out. _However, as she watched him intently, she suddenly realized with a jolt that he was also watching her with an expectant look in his dark eyes.

"Have you had enough now?" he asked roguishly, grinning rakishly down at her with the look of a cat.

Elizabeth gulped, her eyes widening in alarm. _This is not going according to plan. _The thought was wry and sour. "I suppose not…" she replied falteringly, fingering the material of her chemise in unease.

"Well go on then, have some more," he suggested grandly.

She took several nervous gulps, gripping the bottle in an ungainly manner with two hands around its neck as if she wished to strangle it. Soon, however, her anxiety disappeared, and a hazy smile appeared on her face. The alcohol was beginning to close over her mind completely, leaving virtually no sense of rational thought behind as she rapidly became rip-roaringly and undeniably inebriated.

* * *

It was like watching a train wreck. Jack had known from the moment she took a swig of rum that something was up. _As if a 'well brought up young lady' like Miss Swann would ever drink rum willingly,_ he had thought. _Hah!_ He could tell that some crazy, pigheaded plan was going through that pretty head of hers and that he would have to watch the girl carefully that night. He had easily fooled her into believing that he was drunk, and maybe he was… a little, but not enough for it to cloud over his sense of self-preservation. 

Obviously, by this point, whatever scheme had been in the conniving wench's head was now out of it, because now, much to his amusement, the girl before him was utterly drunk and could barely sit up without clutching his arm. It was a tempting thing. The shift she was wearing was none to thick, and it clung to her slight frame in a way that made the roaring pirate in Jack just want to give in to temptation.

Said pirate was already needling his conscience. _Just give in, _it whispered in the back of his mind. His conscience had a steady reply that was something along the lines of her being a virgin and all… but that devil inside him continued to insist that hey—it had never stopped him before.

While Jack had to admit that this was true, he did have a sort of honor code when it came to females, especially pretty, young, intoxicated females with a lot to lose if somehow something went amiss one night.

But the woman was practically giving herself away, leaning against Jack and giving him flirtatious endearments that he did not deserve, no matter how handsome and dashing he was (if he did say so himself.) She was practically _asking _for Jack to ravage her by the firelight.

And then she almost actually _did_ ask for it, metaphors aside. "Jack, are you listening?" She had an endearingly childlike frown on her face.

"Yes, love," he said, but was distracted by his own internal war.

She pouted. "You're still not listening, but maybe this'll get your attention." She leaned into him. "Don't you wanna kiss me?" she asked him coquettishly, her face turned up to him.

Jack nearly jumped with surprise as her proposal brought him back to conversation with other human beings, as opposed to just various parts of himself. But then it was back to Jack arguing with Jack. _Do I want to kiss her? _He peered down at her ponderingly, noticing her high cheekbones, the fullness of her lips, and the way the shadows played across her face to make her all the more tempting. This point, all parts of him agreed on quite firmly. _Yes, I do want to kiss Elizabeth Swann._ He stopped in mid thought. _The question is, should I?_

The look on her face was one of a long-suffering martyr who was just _begging_ to be kissed. She batted her eyelashes at him, looking up at him with large, brown eyes. "Please??" she wheedled.

That was the last straw. The girl was asking for it—no—she was _pleading_ for it, so he shrugged and gave in to the suave pirate that always managed to slither out of situations and leave Jack's conscience to deal with the consequences. He captured her lips with his own and slipped his tongue into her mouth to taste her. She tasted vaguely of rum, and of something sweet and pure, and Jack knew that now that he had kissed her, now that he had sampled her flavor, there would be no going back.

* * *

Elizabeth was drunk for the first time in her life, and she remembered flirting outrageously, but suddenly, they were rolling down the beach and kissing each other all over. Clothes had not yet begun to come off, but if she did not stop it soon, they would, and she couldn't let that happen. What would her father say? 

Nothing good, that's for sure.

So she started with some halfhearted struggling and a limp sound of protest in the back of her throat. He was already unlacing her chemise, and though the part of her that was passionate did not care (or perhaps, maybe, was _glad_ that he was already unlacing her chemise), she pushed him slightly and said weakly, "Wait."

He obviously did not want to wait particularly, but complied with a resigned sigh. "What is it, love?" he asked, nipping at her earlobe and feeling the curve of her waist with his hand. Most of his weight rested on her, and though it wasn't particularly uncomfortable, it wasn't particularly _appropriate_ either.

"I'm not ready for this," she gasped, even though a large and rather infuriated part of her screamed that she was. However, the part of her more commonly known to the world—the upright, responsible part of her—quashed the feelings that coursed through her body as her rational mind began to retake control. She shook her head firmly as he groaned. "I am not ready for this." She sounded ever so slightly like she was trying to convince her_self_ of the fact. The third time she said it, she finally believed it.

* * *

"I am not ready for this." 

Jack had stopped short the first time. Now he was just infuriated.

_God woman, make up your bloody mind!_ Jack wanted to scream. He was so close. _So_ _close_. And now she had to use that quiet but firm tone of voice and act like the purest of maidens with no desires whatsoever of the sexual nature. He wanted to scream in frustration. Or throw something. Or do something involving mindless violence. Or drink himself into a stupor.

Instead, he had to just roll off of her with a small grunt and then sigh. He could not go attack someone or scream or throw things. Instead, he had to pretend he was perfectly all right with the whole thing and spend the rest of the night by himself. _Fine, _he fumed inwardly. _But next time she wants kisses, I'm not holding back!_

"Go to bed, Elizabeth," he said harshly, stumbling away to cool himself off in privacy. _Again with that damned honor code, _he thought, cursing himself. He headed out to the darkness, and then on second thought, weaved his way back to the fire and scooped up a rum bottle that was still half full.

_Not too late to drink yourself into a stupor, mate, _he told himself grimly, staggering off to the other side of the island and brooding the rest of the night.


	2. Of Plans and Lobsters

**A/N: hello all! the last installment! please enjoy it! please please please please pleeeeeeeaaaaase review! i'm desperate!**

Elizabeth watched him disappear into the night like drops of water in a fire and then curled up like a cat, drifting in and out of consciousness as the luster of the alcohol wore off. It was a strange thing, but half of her thought that maybe she was… well, mooning after Sparrow… She shook herself and let the thought fling free, sending it out to wheel about the heavens and twinkle with the stars, but never come back. She lay there, staring up at the stars while her stream of consciousness paid her no mind, venturing about the island and the sky and considering, while making no conclusions. Vaguely, the thought she had hoped would stay away returned.

Her mind wandered to the pirate captain that undoubtedly was passed out somewhere on the beach. Lazily, she lifted her head to check. Sure enough, he hadn't even made it that far before falling over in a drunken slump of heavy sleep. His sprawled form brought wanton images to her head that refused to leave, and Elizabeth was ready to scream with frustration.

She bolted up like a genius that has suddenly realized something of great importance to the world, except instead of shouting, "Eureka," she muttered to herself in a pang of awareness, "I almost lost my virginity." It was amazing; a horrible, yet wonderful prospect that both terrified her and thrilled her. _Good God, what have I done to myself?_ she wondered, staring down at herself with a combination of hatred, remorse, and fear.

_That was much too close, _she thought. The dully throbbing fire in her abdomen was beginning to douse itself in the face of reality's rabid shrieking. _Do you want to end up saddled with Jack's child?!?! _

_Do I?_

She paused, her breath catching in her throat for a moment as the image of a dark eyed, golden-brown haired child burned itself into her eyelids. The child would be beautiful. If she did end up pregnant with Jack's child, would she have the heart to get an abortion? Would she have the heart to dismiss it? Would she be able to hold back her tears if there were to be a miscarriage? More importantly, where had all these treacherous thoughts come from?

_What's happened to me? _Her heart gave a painful _**thump**_ in her chest and suddenly air flooded her lungs. It was promising, the way her head cleared, so she took another deep, gulping, shuddery breath, the kind of breath a person takes after they've nearly drowned, or after they've wept for a while. Rational thought was coming back and smacking her upside the head.

She remembered her thoughts of but a minute or so ago and she could have smacked her_self_. She needed desperately to get back to her proper upbringing. All this rum and sea salt and ocean air and piracy was getting to her head. The hot Caribbean sun had obviously addled her brains.

_I need to get back to myself._

A wicked grin stole across her features, making her look like an impish pixie servant of the devil himself as her eyes gleamed with a fey light from the nearby bonfire. The fog in her head had nearly cleared completely, and she was beginning to feel more like herself; Elizabeth Swann, governor's daughter and patent Hellion.

And this hellion was about to go raise some hell.

She shot a glance at the sleeping, snoring pirate some distance away on the beach and snorted. _Disgusting, _she thought, happy to be settling back into the soothing rhythm of being above the attraction the man presented, relieved to once again have power over her emotions, control over her desires.

Her smile was almost feral. _Not too late to reinstate Miss Elizabeth Swann's master plan to triumph over the evil that is Jack Sparrow. _She smirked and envisioned the shocked look that would surely be on his face once he finally realized what she'd have done to all of his precious rum.

She chuckled smugly to herself. "Yo ho, yo ho, the victory's for me," she sang quietly.

* * *

Jack was in the middle of a curious, and quite odd, dream: A very large lobster sat across from him with a delicate crystal flute of translucent, bubbling champagne in his meaty claw. The lobster was decked out in his finest (as Jack recalled, somewhere along the line, the lobster had confessed that this supper was to be his last aside from the one he was served at, so he had dressed accordingly), featuring a golden pocket watch, a silk cravat, a black top hat, a gold tipped walking cane, and a rather dashing black cape that made him look quite elegant. For a lobster, anyway. 

The lobster sat at a small table with Jack in the dream, conversing about the consumption of sea creatures. The lobster gave Jack a very pointed look and asked with his overly elegant British drawl, "Now, how would you feel if I went and ate your Miss Elizabeth Swann, hmm?? How would you feel _then_?"

Jack was affronted and quite shocked at the lobster's proposal. "Mr. Lobster," he said furiously. "You're _not_ to be eating Lizzie, y' hear? That'd be a sin, it would." Jack's expression turned sullen, like a child deprived of sweets. "And she's not _my_ Elizabeth Swann either." The lobster adjusted his gold spectacles and harrumphed with the air of one who is not impressed while Jack tried to bring the topic of the conversation away from himself. "Besides. There aren't any man-eating lobsters. Only lobster-eating men," Jack added.

The lobster harrumphed again. "Easy enough for _you_ to say. You're not the one who's about to become some chap's supper." The lobster shifted uncomfortably in his seat and readjusted his spectacles once more (it seemed to be a nervous habit of his.) "Besides. I was merely attempting to put you in perspective. My wife was caught in one of those blasted traps (ruined my children's sleep for a month, it did) and we never heard from her again! We can only assume that she was eaten by one of you bloodthirsty humans."

Jack frowned. "Bloodthirsty, I believe, is taking it too far, Mr. Lobster." He stopped, and looked incredulous and bewildered at the same time. "Lobsters have wives?"

The lobster harrumphed disapprovingly once more. "Why shouldn't we, my good man, why shouldn't we?" he boomed. "If I want to have a wife, by God, I'll have one." He pounded the table with his chunky fist, shaking the table so that the dishes jumped and clattered. "It's the same with you, I'm sure."

"No, I don't think I can go up to just anyone and have their immediate consent for marriage," Jack told the lobster, shaking his head and drumming his fingers on the table.

The sound of an explosion rocked the little table, and Jack intuitively roared, "Cannon fire! Get down!" and ducked, while the lobster simultaneously shouted, "The cooking fires! I'm doomed!"

When they both recovered, no one was injured, killed, maimed or otherwise harmed (or even cooked, for that matter) and so both heaved deep-seated sighs of relief. The lobster adjusted his glasses uncomfortably and took a sip of champagne. _To calm his nerves? _Jack wondered, and then he sighed.

"Would y' mind pouring me some a' that?" he asked the lobster wearily.

Soon the both of them were sipping away companionably at their champagne (or gulping away, in Jack's case), until another explosion reached their ears, and the lobster and table (and the champagne too, _drat!_) faded away as Jack awoke to a pounding headache and a combination of the acrid smell of smoke and the fumes of alcohol…

_...Flambé?_ **(1) **Jack wondered, shifting slightly and repressing a groan as a headache socked him in the eyes. His eyes slowly blinked open to the blaring sunlight and he was greeted with the sight of several gray wisps of smoke flying above him like strange birds in flight. _What the—? _He lurched unsteadily to his feet and frowned uncomprehendingly at the blazing fire in front of him for a moment, watching Elizabeth fling various and sundry things into the flames. Suddenly, there was a _**BOOM**_ and it all clicked.

_The rum!_

_Damn! Why didn't I save any?!_

He pondered that for a moment and thought back to himself the night before—he had been depressed, lusting after a woman well out of his reach, and wallowing. He recalled briefly having gulped down the elixir until the sheer alcohol had caused him to pass out. The thought hadn't crossed his mind to save any, and rightly so. The real question he should be answering, he owned, was, _Why is that stupid woman burning the rum?!_

Yes, now his mind was satisfied. The blame should not be laid on him, but on her that was currently running about her enormous fire like the imp that she was. There was another _**thud**_, and then an explosion.

_Damn._

**A/N: well that's it. i struggled with the ending (and it's not even very good. sigh.) but there it is.**

**(1) yes, i know that flambe didn't come into being until later, so dont tell me about that. the only reason i put it there is because it was funny, and to see how many people would notice that it's an anachronism. this one was on purpose (the train one was not).**

**any thoughts on the lobster? he was tons of fun to write.**


End file.
